You Stand Next to Me (and I'm home)
by TheGladElf
Summary: A meet cute of sorts, chronicling the various times Princess Emma of Misthaven runs into one Killian Jones. As always, when our favorite pirate is involved, there is angst. Lt. Duckling.


The first time she meets him she is uncomfortable and cranky and seriously rethinking her costume for the masque.

Why hadn't she gone with black? They had black swans on the lake. At least then she wouldn't be starving herself out of fear she'll drop something on her pristine skirts and ruin her costume. Why hadn't her mother talked her out of the all-white costume? Of course, Emma's mother probably doesn't give much thought to dirtying her clothes. Her mother is the infamous Snow White, her name practically repels dust and grime. And to hear her tell the tale, she spent years living on little more than mushrooms and berries before her stepmother finally ceded the crown to her, so she had plenty of time to test that theory.

Emma would give her right arm for such simple fare at the moment, which does not put her in the appropriate frame of mind for diplomacy. Especially not the delicate dance that involves her—she isn't quite sure what King George is to her right now. It changes, depending on his mood and how insecure he feels about his lack of a legitimate heir.

So, rather than surreptitiously light her estranged adoptive grandfather's steward's tailcoats on fire, Emma chooses to escape onto the balcony for some peace and quiet. A snap of her fingers removes her mask and sets it floating on the breeze near her shoulder. The night air leaves cool kisses on her skin—or at least the little skin not covered in petticoats, corset, or yards of white silk. Ballgowns were always fun in theory, but less fun in practice.

"I heard the princess of Misthaven was magical, but I had no idea they meant it literally."

Emma jumps at the unfamiliar, accented voice, her skirts billowing around her as she spins, her hands rising defensively as her magic sparks at her fingertips. A tall figure detaches itself from the shadows, hands raised as well.

"Apologies, Your Highness," he says, performing a tight, formal bow. "I did not mean to startle." Clasping his hands behind his back, he steps into the rectangle of light stretching across the balcony.

"That is typically the effect you have when you stand in dark, abandoned corners," Emma snaps back.

He ducks his head, scratching behind his ear. "Yes, well dark, abandoned corners are convenient for avoiding older brothers."

Emma tilts her head, studying him. He certainly isn't dressed like an assassin and he isn't acting like one either. Now that he stands in the light of one of the balcony windows, she sees that his dark shirt is actually a jacket of navy broadcloth, double breasted with glittering gold trim across the front and at his shoulders. Crisp white breeches complete the ensemble. She recognizes his clothes, there another half dozen milling about the crowd in the same dress uniform, masks thrown on in the barest nod to tonight's festivities.

"You're one of King George's men," Emma states matter-of-factly. "Considerate of him to allow your brother to tag along."

The young man laughs. "As he is my captain, I'm afraid I'm the one tagging along."

The light catches his eyes, making them flash in the shadows thrown over them. If it weren't for his stiff, upright bearing and the slight hesitance in his step, he might have seemed dangerous.

"I see," Emma says, plucking her mask out of the air. She thinks about putting it back on—this is a masque after all—but even if he hadn't already gotten a good look at her face, her identity was never much of a mystery. "A bit odd to hide from him, then."

The stranger goes red from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears, turning away from her, his eyes finding the jewel-toned figures dancing past the windows.

Guilt flares low in her gut. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry. I've had enough tiffs with my siblings to know better."

His gaze whips back to her, his head tilting as he regards her. "Please, don't apologize, it's only—" He ducks his head again, once again scratching behind his ear. If he wasn't one of King George's men, she might say it was adorable. With a sigh, he continues, "It's for a rather embarrassing reason."

Emma offers a knowing smile. "Siblings have a habit of being embarassing."

She lifts her mask, wrapping the ribbons around the elaborate coiffure that is her hair tonight. If she were alone, she would use magic to tie the ribbons, but somehow it feels like showing off with this lieutenant here.

"He's been trying to badger me into dancing all night," the sailor blurts out. "And I am abysmal."

"Two left feet, huh?" Emma says in a teasing tone usually reserved for Leo or Eva. It's a strange reaction, all things considered, but already, she feels a strange kinship to this man. She too, escapes dancing whenever she can.

He shrugs. "I'm quite good with the footwork, actually. It's the—talking."

"You seem to be doing pretty well now."

If possible, he blushes harder. He inclines his head. "Apologies, Your Highness, I shouldn't have been so forward." He literally clicks his heels together as he straightens. "I'll leave you to your moment of solitude."

"No, wait…" Emma pauses, realizing that she has spent several minutes conversing with a man whose name she doesn't even know and hasn't hated it. "It's alright. I only meant that I was rather enjoying our conversation."

"Really?" His voice lilts up, the hint of a rougher accent coloring his voice.

"Yes," Emma says.

Once again, he shrugs. "You are…easy to talk to. Royal charm, I suppose."

Emma laughs out loud. "I think that's the first time anyone besides my father has called me charming and meant it." She covers her mouth with her hand, trying to restrain her mirth before she makes him uncomfortable again. "You should just do what I do."

Two black eyebrows pop up above the mask, his mouth pulled into a skeptical frown. "And that would be?"

"Let them do the talking." With quick steps she crosses into his patch of light. "Come here." She takes his arm, and though he is a bit stiff— _she_ is being incredibly forward—he doesn't shy away as she thought she thought he might. "Do you see that woman? The one dressed—ironically, now that I think about it—as a peacock?"

Emma points into the milling crowd, her focus on a woman wearing an elaborate ballgown of deep blues and jeweled greens, with a glittering, beaded mask and a dainty fan of peacock feathers perched in her hair.

"Aye," he replies softly.

"She loves talking about herself. Just smile and nod and she'll do the rest." Emma points to another woman, this one in a more demure dress, soft greens and creamy tans. "And her the—uh, I think she's supposed to be a wood nymph—she might be the only person in the castle that knows birds better than my mother. Just ask her what she likes to do in her spare time. And then—" Her eyes scan the crowd until she sees another woman dressed in bright pinks. "Over there. She's supposed to be Psyche—well, her husband came as Cupid at least and they usually pair. She loves mythology and folktales. Get her started on, uh…Poseidon, right? Or Ursula and you'll be an expert before the dance is through."

His eyes flick from person to person, following her finger.

"And if you dance an entire set with each of them, that's six dances. Enough, certainly, to please your brother."

"You are my savior," he says, the relief so evident that Emma can't help chuckling again.

She sighs. "I suppose I should get back out there too."

"Aye, I'm sure everyone wants a piece of your time tonight. I'm quite grateful for the bit you've bestowed on me."

"Oh, stop it," she says. "I bet you say that to all the princesses you meet."

"I'm afraid you're my first."

Emma grins. "I'm glad we rectified that then. We're not all as prissy as some would have you believe." She releases him, feeling ready to head back to the ballroom, oddly enough, but she stops an arm's length away. "You know who I am, sir, but you've yet to tell me who you are."

"It's hardly important."

"Humor me."

"Very well." He takes a step back, bowing again. "Killian Jones, at your service, Your Highness."

"A pleasure, Lieutenant Jones," Emma says, extending her hand.

He bows over it, but does not kiss it. Any other time, that would be a relief, but Emma's finds herself slightly disappointed this time.

He stands straight again, fiddling with his jacket as he does so. "I am in your debt."

Emma smiles. "I'm sure you can find a way to even the score."

She turns with a rustle of silk. Just as she slips back into the ballroom, she hears his whispered voice floating across the night air.

"Happy Birthday, princess."

# # #

Their second meeting occurs several hours later, long after the well-wishers have gone to bed.

"Halt, who goes there," someone barks as she slips out a servant's stairwell leading up to her family's rooms.

Emma draws up short, her mouth dropping open when she finds the dark-haired lieutenant from earlier blocking her path with his saber drawn. Now divested of his mask, she can see his eyes are the most shocking blue she has ever seen.

"State your business or I'll be sounding the alarm." He speaks with authority, the insecure, but affable man from the ball gone. "What were you doing in the royal wing?"

"Who died and made you captain of the royal guard?" Emma asks, pushing back her hood.

His sword arm drops and his eyes go wide as saucers—and gods, she sounds like some fawning maiden, but that makes them even more distracting.

"Your Highness," he sputters, "I—you—what are you…"

He trails off as Emma plants her hands on her hips, quirking one eyebrow as she surveys him.

"The real question, Jones, is what are _you_ doing?" she asks.

"I was chosen to be part of the king's guard while he was here." Sheathing his sword without looking, hee gestures to the door behind him.

Emma nods. "Ah. He doesn't trust my parents."

Killian's jaw drops. "That's not...I mean…"

"It's alright," she says with a wink. "They don't exactly trust him either." She tries to brush past him, but despite the fact that he has turned scarlet again, he blocks her path. Emma blinks. "Excuse me."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," he says, a little of the navy lieutenant creeping into his voice again, "but I can't let you sneak out of the keep at this hour. There are all kinds of rough sorts about."

"Really?" Emma rolls her eyes at him, and then, because he's sweet even if he's misguided and because her parents raised her with manners, she takes the least violent way out of the situation.

One moment, he stares down at her. The next, she stands ten feet behind him, gray smoke dissipating around her.

"I'm afraid you can't stop me," she says and laughs at the way he whirls, mouth agape.

He really is cute when flustered.

Flipping her hood back up, she runs off, down several corridors until at last, she comes to the kitchens. They are dark save for the giant hearth, where embers glow a dark amber, waiting to be stoked in another hour or so. She tiptoes through and eases out the door, loathe to disturb the last few minutes of sleep the kitchen staff have.

The temperature has dropped since she stood out on the balcony with Killian Jones. A deep chill creeps in the air, promise of a cold winter. She pulls a key out from underneath her plain, linen shirt and unlocks the back gate, slipping out into the castle streets. No one loiters in the alley behind the kitchen and Emma drops her pace somewhat, certain she lost the nosy lieutenant—he is locked in at this point anyways—and merrily going about her way.

She nods to the night guard as she crosses the courtyard, waving at the ones she recognizes. They bow and touch their helms.

She is nearly across when a commotion behind her causes her to check over her shoulder.

Killian Jones stands in the alley leading to the palace, the point of several swords thrust quite close to his face. He gesticulates wildly and Emma realizes he points at her. Scuffs of dirt stain his breeches—still white—and his jacket—less formal than the dress jacket from the ball—and his hair is slightly askew.

Emma sighs and turns back for reasons beyond her understanding.

"He's fine, Gustav," she says. "He's with me."

Gustav blinks at her, his lips disappearing behind his thick, ginger mustache. "He is?"

"Yeah, I forgot he was following." She shrugs. "You know, I don't usually take company on these visits."

Gustav nods to the other two watchmen and they all step away, leaving Killian to pass them with a glare and take a place next to Emma. He purses his lips, no doubt about to repeat his earlier protests, but one flick of her eyes reminds him that she could have him hauled back to the keep if she wanted. Killian crosses his arms, but remains silent as she continues on her way, one hand swinging idly at her side, the other preventing her satchel from bouncing.

They walk in silence, Killian's glower deepening as they leave the more polished parts of town and head for where the shutters hang on one hinge and most of the houses haven't seen any paint in decades. She notices the way a muscle in his cheek jumps every so often and how he constantly scans their path, hand on his sword at all times.

At last, they come to a rickety, multi-story building, with no windows and crooked shingling. Killian rocks back on his heels, taken aback when Emma steps up to the warped door and knocks softly.

"Your Highness…"

"You know, most people just call me Emma."

The door creaks open, a thin, gray-haired woman with smudged spectacles and a razor sharp nose peering back at them through the small space. When she sees Emma, she lets the door swing wide and drops a quick curtsy.

"Thank you for coming, princess," she says. "He's upstairs."

"Oh," Killian says. He ducks away from Emma's inquisitive glance, scratching behind his ear again. "Perhaps I'll just wait…"

"Nope," Emma says. "You followed, you can come make yourself useful. Hope you aren't squeamish."

"Squeamish?" Killian's voice carries up the crowded stairwell as he follows Emma to the second floor. His boots fall heavily on the stairs, drowning out her lighter footsteps.

Up the stairs and down the hall, a man waits outside a door. His once dark hair is shot through with silver, two lines of it tracking down from the corners of his mouth as well into his thick beard. He inclines his head, the only sign of deference Emma expects to get. She has always preferred the huntsman's grudging respect to court fawning.

"Princess Emma," he says in a voice that seems rougher every time she sees him.

"Graham."

He pushes the door open, moving without his usual languidness, tight and jerky instead. The whimpers inside, deadened by the door, escape into the hallway now.

A boy—eleven or twelve judging from the size of him—lies face down on the bed shivering and shuddering, small noises of pain escaping his lips. A thick blanket covers him from the waist down, but his torso is bare save for several strips of damp white clothing, tinged slightly pink.

"Oh, Graham," Emma says. "You should have sent for me sooner."

"I already missed your birthday, Emma," Graham said. "I didn't want to ruin it. He was alright, but what I gave him for the pain is wearing off now." He slides out of the way as she enters, his leather boots whispering so softly over the wooden floor that only the creaking boards give way to the fact that he follows her. "He was indentured to a traveling peddler I ran across just outside the castle. I'm afraid I traded your birthday gift for him."

"A child's freedom is a better gift. Do you think you can find the peddler again?"

Graham smiles, cold and cruel. "I can find him."

"Good," Emma says, voice hard. She kneels beside the boy, lifting one of the strips, and grimacing at the mess beneath. The lashes are several days old, infected, and will take more than a simple healing. Whatever Graham applied for the pain still glistens around the wounds. The boy's skin burns fever hot beneath her hand. "Take as many men as you see fit and bring him back here. He'll face justice for this."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Graham replies. He nods one last time and leaves.

Emma brushes the boy's hair away from his face and he opens his eyes.

She smiles kindly. "I'm going to take care of you, don't worry."

"The woodsman said you'd make it stop hurting," he says in a breathy, warbling voice. "Can you?"

"Yes," she says, "but I have to clean it first or you'll get very sick. That's going to hurt a lot."

The boy's jaw clenches. "I can take it."

"I'm sure you can." She begins peeling away the strips of wet cloth, dumping them unceremoniously by her knees. "But you can still cry if you need to, as much and as loud as you need to." She bends to look in her satchel, pulling out a potion that will ease the pain somewhat and a potion that will clean the wounds. She turns, finding Killian still standing at the door, white-faced, the hilt of his sword clutched in a grip so tight his skin is translucent skin, the knuckles beneath standing out in sharp contrast. She doesn't have time for his delicate sensibilities right now, though. "Can you find Vanessa, the woman who answered the door, tell her I need cool water and clean cloth."

Killian nods, a jerky, perfunctory movement, and hesitates with a blank look in his eyes. He spins suddenly on his heel, his boots echoing down the hall as he flees. To her surprise, the sound of retching doesn't join his footsteps.

While she waits for him to return, she coaxes some of the painkiller into the boy's mouth, and learns that he was named Thomas for his father, who died shortly after his birth. His mother called him Tom, but she passed as well a few months ago and his uncle sold him to the peddler, who seemed kind at the start, but began to beat him for the smallest infractions.

Slower, steadier footsteps herald Killian's return, a ceramic bowl balanced between his hands, several rough, but clean cloths draped over his arms. His complexion is still a bit waxy, but there is a firm set to his jaw, a determined flash in his eyes. He crouches by the bed, placing the items next to Emma, and then, rather than retreating, he moves to the head of the small cot.

"Here," he says in a low voice, "hold my hand. It will help."

The boy shakes his head. "I can take it," he hisses.

Killian shrugs. "Suit yourself. I'll stay here if it's the same to you."

Emma empties the second vial into the water, saving the last bit to rub over her hands. The ingredients stain her fingers a lurid yellow, but it will wash away eventually. Dipping a cloth into the water, she starts on the lash furthest from her, careful not to touch anywhere but the spot she cleans as gently as possible. Tom lets out a heartbreaking sob and his hand gropes the air.

"It's alright," Killian says, both large hands closing around the boy's small fingers. "It's going to be alright."

Emma works methodically, stopping only to feed him sips of the pain killing potion that the pain burns through so fast. Tom's sobs are hoarse and high, but he hasn't passed out.

"That's a good, lad," Killian whispers as she starts on the last mark. "Almost there now."

"There." Emma drops the rag into the water, sitting back on her heels as she surveys her handiwork.

The potion dyed the healthy skin a bright yellow as she worked, but the infected wounds brown and bubble and thicken into thick black goo. More than once Killian has glanced at the concoction, his features clouded with concern. Emma shakes her head when he opens his mouth to ask, not wanting to alarm the boy. Her potion is doing exactly as it should. At last, the final wound blackens and she deftly pulls the goo away with her magic and inspects her work.

The lashes look newly raw from her scrubbing, but the lurid pink around the edges has faded to a healthier hue and his skin feels cool to the touch.

"Last bit, and then we'll get you into some clean clothes, okay? This won't hurt, I promise." Her palms tingle as she mends the skin, working slowly, making sure no mark remains—not even a faded scar. Sweat beads on her brow, but she ignores it. Someone mops the sweat with a clean, dry cloth before it can fall into her eyes, but she keeps her focus on Tom's back. "There," she says when she finishes. "You're good as new."

As if on cue, Vanessa enters the room with a tray.

"Well, Tom, do you think you could eat anything?" Emma asks.

The boy sits up gingerly, trepidation clouding his features until he realizes he the movement does not hurt.

"A little," he says in his hoarse voice. "But I'm tired."

"Well, have a little of the soup and the water and then you can sleep." She pulls one of her brother's old night shirts out of her bag. "You can change into this for now."

Thomas touches the fine linen with reverent fingers. "This is too fine for me."

"Nonsense," Emma counters. "You held up as well as the bravest knight. You've earned a few nice things."

Vanessa sets the tray down on a little table in the corner and they leave to let him change in peace.

"He'll probably sleep through the day, but I'll have clothes sent over from the keep in the morning," Emma tells her. "The usual offer stands once he's got his strength back. Shouldn't take more than two or three days."

The older woman nods. "Thank you, princess."

Emma shakes her head. "Thank you. Let me know if you need anything else."

Killian is silent as they leave the orphanage, pausing only once to look back as the door swings shut behind them.

Emma pulls her hood back up, just because she can take care of herself doesn't mean she wants to invite trouble. Though with Killian walking beside her in foreign military garb, she's probably doing just that. Three blocks pass in silence. Tending to the boy drained her, both emotionally and physically, so she decides not to break it. Let Killian put forth the effort if he wishes.

"What's the usual offer?" he asks finally.

"We'll find him work at the keep for food and board."

"You weren't sneaking out. The queen and king, they know."

Emma nods. "My father used to come with me when I was younger."

"Why?" His voice cracks, a million different questions all in that one word. Why does she care? Why would a princess dirty her hands like that? Why does one boy matter to her?

"I told you," she says with a shrug, "I'm not a prissy princess."

He snorts. "I've gathered that much. But _why_?"

"Honestly?"

"Please."

Her feet still as she thinks, trying to pin a finger on the feeling, the thing that first made her aware of those less fortunate that she. Her mother began it, true, but the true awareness, the true need to better the lives of her people in every way she could started later. Somewhere around the time she learned just what Regina had planned for her parents.

"I could have been like him," she says after a long moment. "If my grandmother hadn't come to her senses and turned herself in, I would have been like him." She pulls her cloak around her. "But she submitted to house arrest, my parents remained uncursed, and I grew up a princess."

"A strange house arrest if she's allowed to attend your birthday masque," Killian comments.

Emma laughs. "Think of that as less of a reflection of how much they trust her and more of how little they trust your king."

"Your grandfather."

"He's only my grandfather when he wants something from my parents. And right now, he wants an heir."

Killian shakes his head. "He has been very kind to my brother and I."

"Yes, well, he was very unkind to my parents…actually, he's still sort of an ass." Emma snaps her mouth closed, her cheeks flushing. She would hate to have someone talk about her parents this way. "It's not that they wouldn't forgive him if he asked—I think my mom would forgive her own murderer if they showed enough remorse—it's just, he never really asked. He's always looked down his nose at us."

"I see," Killian says softly. The dim street lights do little to illuminate his face, leaving his eyes dark and far away. He continues down the street, seeming to know his way even without her guidance. He paid attention on his way out here it seems. Or maybe it's some navigational magic that sailors have. Head bowed, he walks slowly until Emma catches up, quickening his pace to match hers.

Though the sun hasn't risen yet, there are people emerging onto the streets, those that have to be in their shops early to bake and prepare. An innwife opens her door, sweeping dirt into the street. Emma nods as their eyes catch, though the woman doesn't appear to recognize her.

"I was that boy," Killian murmurs. "Once upon a time."

Emma turns her head so quickly, there is a sharp twinge in her neck. "Oh."

They cover another half block in silence, Emma scrambling for something to say, something to dignify the piece of his soul he laid bare.

Eyes still fixed on the ground, he continues, "Before Liam and I found our way to King George's navy, we were indentured to several captains—we spent nearly a decade passed from master to master. Many of them were that cruel."

"Killian, you don't have to—"

"So, thank you," he says. "For what you did for that boy."

Emma shrugs. "It was the right thing to do."

He smiles, finally meeting her eyes. "If only more people were like you, princess."

"If more people were like me, the world would probably have been burned down in a fit of temper by now."

That gets her a laugh.

"I am trying to be serious," he protests with twinkling eyes.

He stops them this time, looking down at her with an expression she can't define. Her breath catches in her throat as he takes a step closer and it crosses her mind that if she stretched up on her toes he is close enough for her to kiss. That thought shocks her, she only met him tonight—well, last night, but still, is that enough time to know you want to kiss someone?

Then again, haven't her parents told her time and time again how they knew they were connected from the beginning?

Killian swallows—they are so close, she can hear it—and he starts to say something, but just then, the night watchman passes by them and shouts a greeting. They fly apart so quickly Emma thinks she hears the air crack. He scratches behind his ear again and gestures for Emma to continue on.

The kitchen bustles with sleepy life, the cook and her army of helpers in the process of baking the day's bread and preparing the day's meat. Cook waves at Emma with a yawn as they enter, though the red-faced woman does a double take when she recognizes Killian's uniform. He doesn't seem to notice, shutting the door behind him and smiling at Cook as they pass.

None of the other servants are up yet, so Emma and Killian pass from kitchen to guest wing without running into anyone. Emma pauses at the staircase, hesitant for reasons that escape her.

"Well, I've seen you safely back, it seems," Killian says, apparently equally hesitant.

"When do you leave?"

"Later this morning I think. His Majesty is very eager to return home." He looks to the floor for a moment, his jaw clenching. He sighs, a rather exasperated sound, as though he's about to do something he thinks he'll regret. "This will be goodbye, I suppose."

"Or until we meet again," Emma offers.

His eyes flash up to hers, his lips parting slightly the only warning before he gives her a brief, blinding smile.

"Until we meet again then, Your Highness," he says, grasping her hand and bowing over it just like he did on the balcony. This time, his lips brush her knuckles.

She doesn't wait to see if he feels the spark she felt. With a quick squeeze of his hand, she slips away, running up the stairs before she gets a proper glimpse of his face. Her feet don't slow until she makes it into her room, barely remembering not to slam the door behind her. Heart scampering behind her ribs, Emma sinks back against the door, her mind spinning.

She catches sight of him the next morning when it's time to see her grandfather off, looking stiff and official as he stands behind the king. His eyes are on her though.

They are on her enough that a taller, curly-haired young man with the same blue eyes takes note. The infamous brother glances in Emma's direction once, eyebrows raised, before he leans in to say something to Killian. When they both straighten up, Killian's gaze strays to their surroundings, never once settling on any one spot until it's time to leave. But his ears are, once again, bright red.

For the first time, Emma wishes that her parents' relationship with King George were better.

* * *

 **This was supposed to be a one shot for CS Secret Santa 2016. But the further I delved into the Lt. Duckling dynamic, the more out of hand it got. We're looking at three chapters, I hope. Hope you enjoy! (Constructive) feedback is always appreciated.**


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